“When it begins it is like a light in a tunnel, a rush of steel and
steam across a torn up life. It is a low rumble, an earthquake in the
back of the mind. My spine is a track with cold black steel racing on
it, a trail of steam and dust following behind, ghost like. It feels
like my whole life is holding its breath.
By the time she leaves the room I am surprised that she can’t see the
train. It has jumped the track of my spine and landed in my mothers’
living room. A cold dark thing, black steel and redwood paneling. It
is the old type, from the western movies I loved as a kid.
He throws open the doors to the outside world, to the dark ocean. I
feel a breeze tugging at me, a slender finger of wind that catches at
my shirt. Pulling. Grabbing. I can feel the panic build in me, the
need to scream or cry rising in my throat.
And then I am out the door, running, tumbling down the steps falling
out into the darkened world, falling out into the lifeless ocean. Out
into the blackness. Out among the stars and shadows.
And underneath my skin, in the back of my head and down the back of my
spine I can feel the desperation and I can feel the noise. I can feel
the deep and ancient ache of loudness that litters across my bones.
It’s like an old lover, comfortable and well known, but unwelcome and
inappropriate with her stories of our frolicking.
And then she’s gone and the Conductor is closing the door. The
darkness swells around us, enveloping us in a cocoon, pressing flat
against the train like a storm. I wonder, what is this place?
Those had been heady days, full and intense. It’s funny. I remember
the problems, the confusions and the fears of life we all dealt with.
But, that all seems to fade. It all seems to be replaced by images of
the days when it was all just okay. We all had plans back then,
patterns in which we expected the world to fit, how it was to be
deciphered.
Eventually you just can’t carry yourself any longer, can’t keep your
eyelids open, and can’t focus on anything but the flickering light of
the stars. Hours pass, at first slowly like a river and then all in a
rush, a climax and I am home in the dorm, waking up to the ringing of
the telephone.
When she is gone the apartment is silent, empty, almost like a person
sleeping, waiting to wake up. When she is gone, and I am alone, I curl
up on the bed, wait for the house to eject me from its dying corpse.
Crazy thoughts cross through my head, like slants of light in an
attic.
The Boston 395 rocks a bit, a creaking noise spilling in from the
undercarriage. I have decided that whatever this place is, all these
noises, sensations - all the train-ness of this place - is a
fabrication. It lulls you into a sense of security, allows you to feel
as if it’s a familiar place. But whatever it is, it’s not a train, or
at least not just a train.
The air, heightened, tense against the glass. I can hear the squeak of
shoes on linoleum, I can hear the soft rattle of a dying man’s
breathing. Men in white uniforms, sharp pressed lines, run past,
rolling gurneys down florescent hallways.”
―
Jason Derr,
The Boston 395
